This Unspoken Thing
by kissmelikeapirate
Summary: Emma and Killian were kinda enemies. Now they are kinda friends, but there is this unspoken thing between them. A pull and a want that they haven't yet given a name to. And stubborn Emma Swan just wont admit it...
1. Chapter 1

Emma Swan was in no way avoiding Killian Jones.

 _Someone_ had to go rustle up some food for the impromptu birthday party that had somehow came about. And that someone may as well have been her.

The fact that she could hide in the kitchen for as long as she could get away with was just a bonus.

 _Really._

"Need any help?"

Emma jumped just about a foot in the air at the sound of a softly accented voice, her head narrowly missing the upper edge of the refrigerator. "Dammnit Killian, some warning please."

She looked back over her shoulder to see her friend's teasing smile.

 _Friend._

Oh that was a weird word to say when concerning Jones.

Friends. Amigos. Buddies. _Pals_. All very strange words for someone who only a few months earlier was, what some may have called, her enemy.

"Sorry," he shrugged softly, letting the door close behind him.

He looked tired; the shadows under his eyes speaking of the lateness of the hour that had seen them leave the bar last night and the number of rums they had both consumed while trying to outdo each other.

That was what they did. Always competing. Kind of unavoidable when you are rival bail bonds persons.

 _Who could drink the other under the table? Who could tell the most outrageous (yet true) work related tale? Who could choose simply the best obscure little restaurant that their motley group of friends would just love so much?_

Her stomach squirmed a little as she thought of the bottle of rum that they kept in the liquor cabinet. She was definitely sticking to beer tonight.

"Sure," she quipped - perhaps a little too high pitched - before making to turn back to her search for food.

(Hoping he would take the hint.)

"But Emma-"

"Hmm," she murmured as she picked a block of cheese and a - hopefully fresh - jar of olives from the shelves.

"Can we talk?"

"Little busy here Jones," she said, shoving the block of cheese under her chin so she could grab a tub of guacamole.

"It's about yesterday. And that dance."

Slowly, Emma pivoted on her heel. With the block of cheddar still wedged under her chin and both hands occupied, she tried her best to look in his direction, hampered by the restraints of anatomy and dairy products. The little palpitations that had faded with her hangover, began to return.

She'd kinda hoped he'd forgotten about that.

( _Really hoped._ )

He gave her an odd look, before reaching out and taking the cheese from her grasp, his fingers swiping against the skin of her neck as she whispered, "Thanks."

And then came the awkward silence she'd been dreading. The skin he had touched tingling with electricity as his blue eyes studied her - the way they had a thousand times before - with a mixture of judgement and curiosity that she couldn't quite deal with right now.

"So you danced with me."

"And you danced with me," she retorted with a small shrug, trying to look as nonchalant as she could with tupperware and a half empty jar of olives in her arms.

The muscles in his jaw flickered - the way they always did when he was frustrated (though, damn, she hated that she knew that).

She knew him better than most.

He knew her better than most.

 _Fuck._

He cleared his throat and took a step closer. "Aye I did. _After_ you accosted me on the dance floor." He paused and then raised a brow, "Swan, your arms were like that of an octopus. I felt violated."

His voice had a teasing edge, which made a smile flicker traitorously at her lips - but she knew he was reaching for an explanation as to just why she had - _yes she admits it_ \- got down and dirty with him on _The Rabbit Hole's_ dance floor.

It all flashed back.

Grinding her ass into his crotch. Her hands balling into the damp material of his shirt. The flush on his cheeks as she'd slung her arms around his neck. The practically indecent way she had plastered her body against his on the sweaty, packed dance floor.

Oh holy hell, what had she done?

(Oh _GOD_ she hoped no one else had seen.)

She took a deep breath and nonchalantly popped out her hip, doing her best impression of someone totally confident and not feeling completely out of their depth. "Are you complaining?"

Then he did that thing he does where his eyes rake over her and make her feel all tingly and sexy and-

( _No. No. No_.)

"Never," he replied, his voice noticeably lower, cutting right through her.

She needed to break the moment.

Emma took the chance to empty her arms of their contents and then open one of the cupboards above the work surface to find the large bowl she needed for the nachos. If she had thought that that would have sent Killian away, she was wrong. Instead he sidled up beside her and took the bag of chips she had already gotten ready and ripped them open.

"You still haven't answered me," he sang a few seconds later.

He was persistent, as always.

(It's what made him so good at his job.)

She needed to end this conversation- or at the very least steer it away from his inevitable assumption-

( _That she had a thing for him-_ )

Dampening her lip with her tongue, she let the first lie that appeared in her head fall from her lips. "I was trying to make Graham jealous."

"Graham?" he spat, as if the name was the most disgusting thing ever to pass his lips. "Why the bloody hell would you want anything to do with that tosser?"

"Hey!" she cried, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and then tossing her hair over her shoulder. "He's a good guy. Decent. Hardworking."

(That much was true. Graham Humbert was decent and kind and good and- well, all the things she should want in a man. So they say.)

"Your brother's partner," Killian offered, folding his arms and observing her with a disbelieving eye.

She turned her head and gave him a sarcastic smile. "Gee, I never noticed."

His expression changed as their eyes met - softened somehow, his smile shifting somewhat. Their eyes fixed for a long moment, until he looked away and began opening a bag of tortilla chips. "Well, I'm actually surprised you're interested in him. I thought you went for the more… rugged, roguish type."

"Oh, like you?" she replied, so quickly the words had left her mouth before she could stop herself.

He took a quick breath. "Yes, actually."

Wordlessly he poured out the chips and then crumpled up the bag, the crackle of the plastic wrapper occupying the silence their voices had left behind. Emma picked up the jar, running her hand over the lid as she waited for him to say something else.

 _Anything else._

Because there was a wordless tension brewing between them, and not for the first time. She heard him sigh.

She looked across at him; he was rubbing his hand over his stubbled jaw.

"When are we going to do something about this?" he asked quietly.

His words turned her heartbeat into a steady thud in her chest and she sucked in a deep breath.

"About what?" she replied. Going for breezy but instead it came out all strained and awkward.

A torturous second stretched out as the two watched each other.

Then he took the container of olives she was trying to open, his large, strong hands opening it with a soft pop. He placed it back on the countertop and her arms fell limply to her sides. No barrier between them, not even a jar of pickled vegetables.

"This thing between us," he said, eyes searching hers until she looked away, not wanting to go… there.

"There is nothing between us, Jones," she insisted.

Killian rested his arm on the countertop, leaning in towards her. "Emma, there has been an unspoken thing between us for months now."

Furrowing her brow, she looked him square in the eye. "It was just a dance, Killian. Don't read anything into it. I was drunk. _You_ were drunk."

She backed away from him, folding her arms, creating another barrier between them.

"There is no _thing_ here. Unspoken...or otherwise."

He looked like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply shrugged and whispered.

"If you say so."

And before she could say any more, he left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Killian had thankfully given her a wide berth the rest of that evening.

The whole party was actually quite sedate. While they had been celebrating her brother David's birthday, the real partying had happened the night before at their local bar, _The Rabbit Hole_. Everyone was, of course, feeling a little delicate. And no one questioned Emma's quietness or how she slipped away to bed before any of the guests had left.

All of which she was thankful for, because she really she could not cope with Killian right now. She needed to wait for this _whatever it was_ to blow over so they could go back to their usual antagonistic friendship.

Yet despite her efforts not to, she thought of him as she lay in bed that night and listened to the sounds of the ongoing celebration. His deep and distinctive voice was easy to pick out. He was always thick in the conversation with a tale or a joke. Always the life of the party. Convivial. Charming. Popular with just about everyone he met. Knowing he was there, just a wall or two away tormented her in a way she could not have anticipated.

Not that anything about her relationship with Killian Jones was predictable. Originally, they had worked for rival companies. Competing for the same jobs, they had had the occasional heated confrontation that never failed to leave her blood boiling. But then _Jolly Roger Bail Bonds_ had been taken over by Emma's employer and they had became co workers. It was at first hard to overcome the ingrained rivalry and on the few occasions they had been forced to work together things had been prickly, to say the least.

But slowly his dry sense of humor had grown on her as the months ticked by. And he always brought her coffee when he went to get his own. The times when they were stuck together staking out some asshat or other, he found this way to engage her in conversation that made the hours tick easily by. It ended up that if they were both in the office, they would more often than not eat lunch together. Until, after six months of being co-workers, they were something resembling friends. Which would have been just about acceptable, she supposed.

Fate had other plans. It hadn't taken too long after that for him to figure out that her brother was a cop and then for him to wriggle himself into a friendship with David fuelled by a shared love of British soccer. The she definitely couldn't get away from him. He melted into her friendship group as if he had always been there. Still, he was, overall, a positive presence. One she was not averse to, yet always kept at arm's length. Never letting him peek beneath her infamous emotional walls.

(Not that she ever let anyone past those-)

 _But last night-_

Yes, Graham had been on her mind as she had approached Killian. The handsome Irishman, with his pretty eyes and broad shoulders was certainly a joy to look at. And he was kind and polite and courteous. And boy had her brother pushed them together. "It's my birthday, Ems, just have a drink with him."

Already pretty drunk from multiple shots of rum, she'd tried to work up the urge to approach him. _He was perfect_. On paper. _And she was single._ Yet, instead of sidling up to the blonde where he stood at the bar, she found herself walking in the opposite direction to the table where she had earlier left Killian deep into a bottle of liquor.

She'd given him a cryptic smile as she approached the table. He'd cocked his head to the side, his lazy blue gaze penetrating even in the dark bar. Then she'd taken his hand and tugged him in the direction of the dancefloor.

There was one important fact in this moment.

Emma didn't dance. Not in the 'just to have fun' kinda way.

She drunk danced, when the drinks told her that this song was, like, the best one ever and her friends tugged her into the throng in front of the band of DJ booth. She also danced when trying to catch a guy's eye. She knew a few sexy snakes of her hip and suggestive glances could get most men hot under the collar. Not that she'd done that for a while.

Yet dancing with Killian was none of those things, she'd told herself. He was her friend. Wasn't he?

"Emma…" he'd complained as the threaded between the dancing bodies, only becoming quiet when she had placed her palms on his shoulders and smiled.

"Just a dance, Jones," she'd shrugged, before beginning to snake her hips to the music.

"You don't dance."

Emma's fingers slipped around to the open neck of his shirt, grasping the material. "I need to let off some steam," she sighed.

Whatever he was going to say, died upon his lips and the two began a rum fueled dance. His hands at her waist hers wrapped around his neck. It was surprisingly fun, thoughts of Graham easily slipping from her mind as she let herself enjoy the moment.

But then the poppy beats of an early Rihanna number had been replaced by the sexy chords of Santana's 'Smooth' and what had started as a light hearted frolic, became a slow and teasing mixture of tangled limbs and grinding hips. He'd sang the lyrics as his arms tightened around her waist and mouth had danced about her ear, his breath warm on her neck.

 _'Give me your heart, make it real or just forget about it'._

She spun around, laying back, she'd pressed herself closer to him, enjoying the firmness of his chest and swaying with abandon.

It felt good to be held by him. Even through the drunken haze she knew it.

He held her like he cared, _like he wanted._

And as the final beats of the song played, she allowed herself to see something she'd been hiding from for months now.

Killian wanted her.

 _And more worryingly, she wanted him._

This revelation seriously complicated matters in a way she was fully unprepared for. As she stumbled away from him as the song died away, her hand slowly slipped from his as their eyes lingered upon each other's form.

Surely, if she didn't think about it, it was nothing.

She wouldn't think about it. She would not think about him. Or the way their bodies felt pushed together. Or all those repressed feelings trying to bubble to the surface.

If she went on as she did always, it would be fine.

There was not a thing between them.

She was sure of that.

She repeated those words as a mantra as she walked away and headed towards Graham at the bar.

/

He didn't mention their discussion in the kitchen again.

She was silently thankful.

He understood.

It was _just_ a dance.

(If she told herself enough times it would be true.)

And it was, until _things_ started to happen.

/

Many times, she had been told to ditch her car. The cheerful yellow paint job of the VW Bug was the most conspicuous color possible, she would admit that much. But she had a strange sense of sentimentality for the car that was the sole reminder of her first serious relationship (or perhaps a cautionary reminder would be a more apt description). It was also great for eating, napping and generally living in when the time called for it. As it often did when faced with a long stakeout.

Two weeks had passed since the party. Killian Jones was the farthest thing from her mind. She was patently not thinking about him as she read the latest trashy novel that Ruby had handed down to her. She was not imagining herself as the naive country girl and Killian as the dashing sailor who promised to take her away from the drudgery of farm life as he ravished her upon a haystack-

Until he was there, tapping on the driver's side window, a bag of takeout from Granny's diner clutched in his other hand.

After almost jumping out of her skin, she rolled down the window and gave him a confused look.

"Lunch?" he said, his grin almost contagious.

She schooled her expression into one of neutral indifference. "I have Cheetos," she replied, pretty sure there was a half empty bag in her glove box.

He rolled his eyes. "Leroy said you've been out here since last night. I brought you a grilled cheese. And some cocoa." He leant down and picked up one of the familiar styrofoam cups and her stomach gurgled traitorously.

"Fine," she sighed, "give it here."

She gestured to him to hand the food through the open window, but he had other ideas. Instead, moving around to the passenger door and after a bit of maneuvering with the items in his hand, yanking it open and sliding into the seat beside her.

"That wasn't an invitation, Jones."

He gave her a pointed look. "It's bloody freezing - and I'm doing you a good deed. At least let me warm up before you send me back out onto the barren streets of Boston."

"I can see your car parked two spaces down," she replied in a droll tone.

He simply smiled expectantly, the delicious goodies in the paper bag making their presence known to her nostrils. Her hunger outruled her head. "Okay, you can keep me company while I eat. In case this asshole I'm tailing finally gets out of bed."

Killian handed her the paper bag and she began to remove the contents, taking deep breaths of the familiar food smells.

"Is this another alimony case? Or is this a _real_ criminal?"

So it seemed they were returning to their old sparring ways.

This was good.

"Hey, I can't help it if they need to send a woman to catch a man," she replied, shoving a hunk of cheesy bread into her mouth, quickly chewing. "But since you asked, he's an embezzler. Skipped bail, living here with an ex. So predictable."

"Aren't they all?"

"Men?" she shrugged. "Yeah."

"Ouch," he hissed. "That smacks of bitterness. Things not going well with your boyfriend?"

"What?" she asked, giving him a confused look in the rear-view mirror.

"Graham. Since you, you know, fancy him and all that, I'd assumed you'd made it official."

Emma licked her lips. "Please, what I do - or do not do - with my personal life is none of your business." She rolled her eyes and took another large bite of the sandwich, not letting herself dwell on his digging into her love life.

There was a second of silence as Killian straightened himself up in the passenger seat. "Ah yes, because there is no 'thing' between us."

Emma paused mid chew and then swallowed heavily. So he wasn't letting this go.

"Exactly."

This time their eyes met in the mirror. He stared her out for a few seconds until she felt her cheeks start to burn and she averted her gaze, focusing on the crumpled paper bag in her lap.

"So, what if I told you I had a date this weekend?"

Her heart beat seemed to slow, turning into a dull rolling thud. The sandwich sat heavily in her stomach. She knew he dated - he was a very handsome guy. This was nothing new.

She _didn't_ care.

"I'd be thrilled for you," she insisted, before adding, "And feeling a little sorry for the girl."

"Hmmm," he purred, annoyingly ignoring her quip. "She's quite the catch. Blonde. Blue eyes, fantastic legs-"

Emma felt her irritation rise. She tossed the rest of the sandwich back into the container.

"I really don't care, Jones," she seethed.

"Is that so? Even if she has a masters in business and two bachelor's degrees-"

That was it. She spun in her seat until they were eye to eye. "I'm confused, why are you telling me this?"

He shrugged. "Why Swan, because we're _friends._ "

"Friends don't need to share everything," she replied, narrowing her eyes and wishing he would just go away.

"So you admit it, we are friends?"

Wordlessly, Emma raised her hands. If she were honest, right now she didn't know what they were. "Of a type?"

And then the teasing facade slipped a little, the hesitancy crept into his voice. "Not the romantic type?"

"Killian-" she whined, scrunching her eyes shut. Free lunches from Granny's for a year wouldn't be worth this torment.

Then she felt his hand on her shoulder. "Just kidding, love," he said in a soft tone. He ran his thumb over her collarbone. She felt the motion keenly, even through her thick leather jacket.

Pulling away, he smiled briefly. "Better be off, a date to plan and all."

"Good luck with that," she snipped as he reached for the door handle.

He simply nodded and left.

/

She spent the best part of the next six hours staring blindly at the dumb romance novel as she re-ran the conversation over and over in her head. She imagined this mysterious, sexy, intelligent date of his. She pictured him dancing with this faceless woman and kissing her and-

God, _so much more._

She was almost thankful when Leroy called and said her skip had been caught during a road traffic stop. She had no idea how he had gotten out of the apartment without her seeing, but it gave her an excuse to drive home and work on that bottle of rum in the kitchen.

It was a pity the damn stuff just reminded her of him.


	3. Chapter 3

It was Friday night drinks at _The Rabbit Hole_. She didn't always make it - work - but tonight she was ready to knock back a few beers and let off some damn steam.

Emma stood at the bar, a bill in her hand as she tried to catch the bartender's attention.

"You made it."

The sound of her brother's voice made Emma smile. He'd been working twilight shifts recently and they'd been pretty much ships passing in the night. She gave him a quick hug. "Hey pops," she quipped, using the nickname she'd given him in childhood in deference to his elder status.

"Squirt," he replied, pinching her side before ordering for both of them. "So, how's work?"

"Great," she smiled, thinking of the commission she had made that week. She had enough to cover her share of the rent for the next three months saved up and that was certainly cause for celebration.

"And Killian?"

Emma froze as their drinks were placed in front of them. "Why are you asking me about him?"

He paid and the two turned away from the bar.

"Well, you work with him-"

"He's your friend too!"

"So you are friends," he grinned, taking a pull from his bottle. "I thought something had happened."

She gave him a puzzled look.

David rolled his eyes. "You've been weird around each other for weeks now. I'm not the only one to have noticed."

"You guys have been talking about me behind my back? Great."

Stalking over to the jukebox, she tugged off her jacket, tossing her hair in frustration.

"Hey, hey," her brother called as he caught up to her, placing a cautionary hand on her arm. "What's that all about?"

She turned to face him. "I don't like being the subject of gossip, David."

He frowned and let out a deep sigh. "I'm sorry. I was just concerned. You've been so quiet around him recently. You're usually always sniping at one another and making fun of each other."

Emma sniffed. "I'm fine."

Shrugging, he slowly nodded. "Okay. If you say so." Emma looked at David, expressing as much sincerity in her eyes as she could muster.

Because in fact she was not okay. She was tormented. Killian was giving her a wide berth, as she was him. Since their little lunch date in the bug they hadn't shared more than the briefest of conversations. That hadn't stopped her from hearing him discuss his love life across the office when they both happened to be there at the same time. She'd had to stop herself from muttering under her breath on more than one occasion.

And she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of thinking what he did was bothering her.

( _Even if it was_.)

"Well I do," she insisted.

They tapped the necks of their beers together, then each took a drink.

Emma was about to turn to the jukebox when David smiled. "You know for a while, I thought you two had a thing." Although she glared at him, he seemed oblivious. "Crazy, huh?"

As her brother walked off, Emma couldn't help but mutter.

"Yeah, crazy."

/

The ER was not her venue of choice for spending a Sunday evening. She'd have much rather been tucked up in bed with a hot cocoa and a season of her favorite show loaded up on Netflix.

Yet fate - and the weather - had another idea.

Chasing a skip through rain-sodden back alleys was not usually a problem. She could run in six inch heels if she needed to, she reminded herself with pride. But wet asphalt had today proved her nemesis. So as 1am approached she found herself sitting in a waiting room with an assortment of drunks and nervous mothers with small children. She'd texted Leroy as soon as she had realized she had done something bad to her ankle so he could get another agent on the case and now she had plenty of time to feel sorry for herself.

When the doctor had told her it was a sprain, she had almost cried in relief. The pain was intense and her ankle had ballooned to twice its size. She'd really feared a break. A sprain though, that was easy, a little ice, a day or two's rest-

"You need complete isolation of the joint for two weeks."

Emma stared at the nurse who was discharging her.

"Huh?"

"Two weeks, Miss Swan. If not you risk permanent damage to the soft tissue. And that could result in surgery."

"But it's just a sprain?"

The nurse gave her a stern look. "A severe sprain. I mean it - no work, no anything. And if you absolutely must move around you will use crutches."

Emma sat and waited as the feared crutches and a prescription for painkillers were procured for her. She was not looking forward to explaining this to Leroy. Or sitting around the apartment. Or getting up the two flights of stairs to said apartment.

Maybe she could call David, he was working but he could-

"Emma, there you are."

She did a double take. Yes, that was Killian Jones standing in the doorway of the examination room. "What are you doing here?"

"Leroy called and told me to check up on you. So here I am."

Emma straightened her leg and winced. "Well I'm fine, you can go."

"You don't look fine."

"It's just a sprain."

Of course the nurse chose that moment to return with a bag full of drugs and a pair of crutches.

"A severe sprain," the nurse repeated, frowning at Emma, before clocking Killian and giving him a bright smile.

(Of course she fancied him. Everyone did, Emma thought drolly.)

The necessary paperwork was signed and Emma winced more about what the deductible would do to her bank account than through the pain in her leg. Annoyingly, Killian insisted on hanging around, asking the nurse a million questions about her injury and what care she would need. The nurse of course answered each one perfect patience and flirtatious smiles.

"Shouldn't you be going?" she suggested as she was finally given the discharge.

He walked silently to the exit as she shifted awkwardly on the crutches. Thankfully the effort to use them was wiping out any part of her mind that could have really thought about being in such close proximity to him.

"Go on, shoo," she said as they reached the cool night air. "Go back to whatever woman you left in your bed."

That thought made her frown.

"Jealous, Swan?" he teased.

"You wish," she snapped in reply, very certainly not trying to think about him in bed with some gorgeous, leggy supermodel-type.

Killian shrugged. "Alas, I have no woman to warm my sheets tonight, so I will have to make do with taking you home."

"I can get home just fine."

"And the stairs?"

Damn him, he had a point. Silently, she pushed out her chin and let him take the paper bag of drugs from her hand. He then led her to his car that was parked outside the hospital, before taking the short drive back to hers and David's place. By now, it was almost 3am and the streets were deserted. Just the way she liked it. Not that she could enjoy it, with the throbbing in her ankle and the hyper sensitivity to Killian's closeness.

When they reached her building, the logistics of getting inside needed to be worked out. For a minute or two they squabbled.

"I can walk-"

"You'll hurt your leg-"

"I'm not an invalid-"

"Actually Swan, that's exactly what you are-"

"Killian-"

Before she could finish, she found herself hoisted over his shoulder in a fireman's lift.

She let out a soft huff, the air squeezed out of her, her hair hanging over her face as Killian quickly took the stairs. With one arm he grasped her thighs, the other held her crutches. She was slightly terrified that he could drop her, but his grip was firm, the press of his fingers into her flesh so sure that before she could protest she was at her doorway.

"Thanks," she sighed.

Fishing out her keys, she expected him to leave. But as she went inside, he followed her. She was hobbling, hopping slowly towards the couch. He closed the door behind them and propped up her crutches against the wall.

Whatever words of protest she had were lost in a wave of exhaustion. She yawned.

"You need to sleep."

"Congratulations, Einstein."

His face darkened and she felt just a little guilty.

"Sorry," she winced, trying to get up again.

He didn't reply. Instead he walked to her, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her to stand. "Come on, milady. Your chamber awaits."

Emma laughed softly. She let him take her weight and after a few minutes of effort, she was in her room, sitting on her bed.

It was dark. He slipped back towards the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the living room. He looked so tall and solid. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Um," she coughed, "I-" she gestured to her clothes. He nodded and closed the door.

With a deep breath, she began to work off her jeans. The last part where she had to tug them over her ankle was particularly tender. The joint ached as she pulled on a pair of plaid pajamas from under her pillow.

So preoccupied was she, that it was only when she was fastening the last buttons that she realized that Killian hadn't flirted with her once that evening.

She was mulling over this uncharacteristic behavior when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she sighed, trying to arrange herself on the comforter in a somewhat elegant arrangement.

(Why, she didn't want to think further on-)

He entered, the crutches under his arm and a small tray carrying a glass of water and a small bottle of orange juice alongside a brown vial of pills.

"Comfortable?" he asked, setting down the items on her nightstand. He was suddenly very close and she scolded the part of her that noticed her racing heartbeat.

"Hmph," she grumbled, wincing as she flexed her toes.

He smiled. At first she thought he was going to make some smart comment, but instead he reached down.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He was going to kiss her.

Killian Jones was going to place his lips on hers-

She held her breath-

And then he took hold of the pillow behind her and gently began to fluff it. His hands brushed her cheek, scalding them- hot, cold, she wasn't sure.

Then he stood back.

Cold, unexpected disappointment rippled through her.

"Better?" he asked, his eyes wide and honest, so blue even in the dimness.

"Yeah," she shrugged, seeking an easy out from the sudden intimacy of the moment. She reached out to her side, grasping the water and taking a drink. It dribbled down her cheek and she self-consciously wiped it away with the sleeve of her pajamas.

She wasn't exactly sure what was happening. She wasn't sure if she liked it. Or if she didn't-

He fussed for a moment, setting out a couple of pills from the bottle, picking up her discarded clothes and putting them in the laundry hamper, turning on the little lamp on the bedside table.

Finally, he paused. His face now illuminated. He looked far too handsome for that in the morning, his ever present layer of scruff giving him a darkly attractive edge that was ever more evident in the twilight hours.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, placing the glass back where she got it from.

"It's in my best interest that my co-worker is back to duty as soon as possible."

Emma let out a soft huff.

"And maybe I'm just trying to be nice."

His eyes said more than his words. But she couldn't quite read his expression. Somewhere in the hazy, milky blue there was a message for her, but she was too tired and too jacked up on pain meds to understand. So she reverted to her usual attitude towards him.

"You, nice? Please. You're only nice when you're trying to get in someone's pants."

(She didn't mean that. She didn't know why she said it. She wanted to take it back; she didn't know how.)

For a second, he looked hurt. A little part of her crumpled. But then that look of hurt was replaced by a confident smile.

"Maybe I am." He folded his arms, his biceps straining nicely against his shirt, the large scale of his hands all the more evident from their position.

(She wiped away a memory of those hands holding her waist-)

This was fine. She could do this. The antagonistic back and forth. This was what they did.

She stiffened her back, picking at an imaginary piece of fluff on the comforter, as she bristled. "I'm not having sex with you because you gave me a ride home."

He didn't immediately reply. She watched with interest as his knuckles blanched as he briefly tightened his grip on his own arms. Then he straightened his shoulders a little.

"Maybe I don't want to have sex with you," he said.

Their eyes met. She wasn't sure how to respond. Was this a test? Some kind of joke about how he didn't find her attractive? Was he going to compare her to all these mysterious women he's been on dates with-

"Maybe I want to make love to you."

Silence.

She'd heard an absolute silence described as like the air being sucked out of a space. Absolute nothingness beyond the sounds on one's own body. She presumed that is what this moment was. Perfect silence. Everything faded away - the city sounds, the creaks of the old building, even the ticking of the alarm clock.

He seemed to be waiting for her reaction.

Her mind raced as simultaneously her heart seemed to catch in her throat.

In some ways, it was the most romantic thing anyone had said to her in a while. Well, if the context was right and it was heartfelt.

But he didn't mean it, did her? He was joking with her. Playing the silly, antagonistic game they seemed to so love.

(Or _had_ loved.)

So she laughed. Softly, with no real menace or ire behind it. She needed to show him she saw through his game, that she wouldn't rise to his machinations.

"Good one," she nodded, tapping a pointed finger at him. "You had me there for a minute, Jones."

His gaze dropped to the floor. "Did I?" he sighed.

Nervously, Emma fidgeted. She felt the situation was not in her control. He was not behaving the way she expected. She felt unsure and confused and she had a million questions but not the words to express them.

He beat her to the punch.

"Better be going, Swan. Early start, and all."

He was making his way to the door before she was able to reply. "Thank you, Killian. It was- very kind of you. To help."

Pausing, he simply nodded, before slipping away and closing the door to her bedroom behind him.

/

She dreamed of blue eyes and soft words and love making and strong hands-

(She blamed the painkillers.)


	4. Chapter 4

Bed rest was boring. She had decided this after the fifth hour of her confinement. Emma had already read every cheesy magazine in the apartment and was already over watching re-runs of Judge Judy. She had taken up residence on the couch, only making the effort to move when nature called.

It was excruciating.

She'd always thought that she preferred her own company, but now she was having to re evaluate that. Bail bonds meant a lot of time alone. Still, even when she was on a job she always had Leroy calling her from the office. Or Killian. They would text, usually, jibing each other and passing back little jokes and taunting barbs.

Sitting by herself for hours while her brother either slept or worked was slowly beginning to drive her crazy. And there was far, _far_ too much time to think.

Thankfully, the swelling around her ankle had mostly subsided within a few days and she began to try and move around a little more, though still with the cautious movements of a newborn foal. She clung to the crutches as she stumbled from piece of furniture to piece of furniture . The nurse's stern warning about aggravating the injury had stuck in her head.

As did the way she had batted her eyelids at Killian.

It annoyed her, the way women fawned at him. It was evident just about every time they were in a public place together: the looks, the whispers. It was so superficial. He was just a guy, she reminded herself - on the numerous occasions over those two weeks when her mind wandered to thinking about him. (While at the same time batting away the urge to text him. A little bit of sparring would probably cheer her up. And give him completely the wrong idea.)

She may not have spoken to him since he brought her back from the hospital, but their discussion had done laps around her brain. The looks, the flirting… the _maybe I want to make love to you._ Even though she knew he was joking, those words still sent pleasurable shudders down her spine when she played them on repeat.

Between the dance and the conversation in the kitchen and his insistence on telling her about his active dating life and then his concern for her at the hospital-

Well, it was complicated and confusing. And she really only had herself to blame-

(And the rum. _That_ was why she had danced with him. Yes, that was why.)

She honestly felt that whatever weirdness had been between them could only be helped by this little separation. Not seeing him would take away those thoughts ( _feelings…_ ) that had started to appear. He was a pretty man, a potent drug- all dark hair and charm, his whole aura attractive and bright, drawing others to him in a moth-like fashion. It was clearly only a matter of time before she fell under his spell. So, the cure was abstinence and separation.

(Even if there was at least a little part of her that questioned why he hadn't called-)

Feeling quite proud of herself for this understanding, Emma was renewed in spirit. She may have been bored stiff, but she was finally taking some control of things.

And she decided to do something that she should have done weeks ago. Late one evening, in those last few days of isolation, she picked up her phone and called Graham.

/

Being back at work after so long away was both difficult and refreshing. Emma had never taken more than a few days vacation at a time, preferring to eke it out over long weekends rather than indulgently use it all at once. So her convalescence had been the longest period she had ever been away from her desk.

It was unsurprising, then, that she had spent that first day attending to a mountain of paperwork. Come eight o'clock, she was still at her desk, sorting and scowling and wondering how Leroy ever ran this place without her.

She was deep in a pile of invoices when Killian made his presence known. He was wearing his usual tight, dark jeans and perfectly fitted leather jacket. She smiled stiffly when he looked her way- still feeling awkward about the way she had treated him that night he had taken her home and the complete lack of contact between them since then. Then she saw the cut on his forehead and the scratches at his knuckles-

"Shit," she mumbled, dropping the paperwork she was holding, "You okay?"

He winced as he shrugged, placing the file in his hands onto his empty desk. "Embezzler got a little handsy," he explained as he pulled out his chair and sat, before flicking through the sheaf of documents.

"You should have gone to the ER," she commented, before making her way to retrieve the first aid kit that was behind Leroy's desk.

"It's just a scratch," he said, catching her eye as she turned back to him - a moment stretching out as he removed his jacket and her fingers grasped the small green bag a little tighter. "Besides, he's safely in lock up now, so I think I came out on top." He tried to grin but it turned into a grimace as he touched the injury to his face.

"Scratch my ass," she huffed, pulling her desk chair across to his and opening the bag, searching for some antiseptic ointment.

"Swan, you really don't need to." He placed his hand on hers and she paused, looking up at him, letting herself soak in his lovely features for a second: the angle of his jaw, the regal slope of his nose, the plain old dose of handsome that she was trying to immune herself to.

Lashes fluttering, she focused back on her task. "I owe you one," she explained, begging her skin not to flush.

"Fine," he nodded after a few seconds, moving his hand to rest on the desk. "How is the injury?"

"Fine," she shrugged, her fingers finally locating the ointment. "Glad to be back."

He cleared his throat as she grabbed a cotton pad. The decision to play nurse was clearly not one she had thought through very well. Being so close to him after radio silence for so long was having the opposite effect to the one she was hoping for. She pawed with care at the scratches on his hands and the slash across his forehead, noting that just a little deeper and he would have had a scar.

"You're lucky this wasn't worse," she pointed out, scowling as she saw the bruising beginning to appear around his eye. "You know the drill - they get too violent and you drop it."

"Why Swan, your concern for my welfare is flattering." There was that old teasing tone. "But I assure you I was safe, though he may well have knocked some of the handsome out of me." He winced again as she wiped away a speck of dried blood from his brow.

"As if," she trilled, absentmindedly enough, "That's not possible, Jones."

"Really?" he whispered, his face moving forward just as she looked up so that his pretty, pretty eyes were only inches from her own. He heart began that familiar dull thud, so she pressed her eyes closed and fumbled in the bag for a bandage. Her reply was simply to cluck her tongue.

She prepared the dressing, her eyes avoiding his, not wanting to see that dreamy blue lest she begin to have traitorous thoughts. Her mind sought a topic of neutral conversation; anything to dull the biting tension beginning to stretch between them.

"He give you any trouble once you cuffed him?" she asked.

"No - but he did try and headbutt dear old officer Humbert down at the precinct."

"Graham's working tonight?" she asked, pressing the bandage gently to his forehead.

"He does lates on Tuesdays, I thought you knew?" Emma let that soak in as she held the dressing in place, tearing off strips of medical tape with her teeth to hold it in place.

When she finished, he continued. "He asked about you. Said you have dinner plans on Friday."

 _Oh. That._

"It's nothing," she said dismissively, crumpling up the scraps and tossing them in the trash can.

"I've heard that before."

Emma froze, those words taking her back to the kitchen a month earlier. With slow, careful movements, she looked up again. Killian was now lying back in his chair, his hands interlinked over his chest.

"Actually, Swan, I should say it's about time. You're an indecisive woman and it's good to see you making some strides forward for a change in the personal arena."

There was an insincere - yet not malicious - tone to his voice. She didn't like it. She liked the snippy Killian who would have made fun of Graham's hair or teased her about finally having someone to warm her sheets.

"Thank you, I guess." She wasn't entirely sure if it was a compliment, but she didn't really want to dwell on that right now. In fact she had already ruined whatever resolutions she had made about keeping her distance from Killian and she needed to rescue the situation. "He's wanted to ask me out for a while. I thought I should give him a chance," she explained, before rising and returning the first aid kit. When she turned around, Killian had rounded his desk and was perched on the edge, arms folded, his shirt doing that pleasing stretch thing again over his arms, his ruffled hair from the tussle making him even more sexy than usual, calling to a primal part of her that she felt slightly ashamed of.

"How very magnanimous of you."

She glared across the office, taking slow deep breaths.

 _What was he playing at?_

She wasn't going to fight with him. She was going to be cool and calm. She would not let him get to her.

"He's a nice guy," she insisted.

"Yeah, _nice_."

Emma's heart seemed to drop into her stomach at his words.

Nice as in _boring_. Nice as in _safe_.

(Certainly not things that Emma herself had thought.)

Killian crossed his feet at the ankles, settling in like he was staying for a while.

He needed to leave. Now was not the time to be letting him burrow beneath her skin. She needed to clear her head. _Oh why did he have this effect on her-_

"So, you're done now?"

"Sure," he replied, with a small nod, though he made no sign to move.

Her only hope was that if she ignored him he might leave. She tried to not see the way his eyes were trained on her as she went back to her desk and the pile of invoices. Her own eyes blurred over the figures she waited for him to do something. It took a few minutes of burning tension for him to speak.

"Swan, why don't you hate me anymore?"

That was unexpected. Dazed, she looked up.

"I _do_ hate you," she insisted, fidgeting with her ponytail and shifting about in her chair. She was never a great liar even if she was good at spotting them.

He stalked the few steps to her desk and placed his large palms on its surface, leaning over her, his shadow falling across the file she was trying to look at.

"No, you don't."

She had no idea where he was going with this. And she didn't want to indulge him. Not really.

Her tongue darted across her lips. "Well… I barely tolerate you," she explained, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling at the lie, his fingers fanning out just within her eyesight. She could smell his woody cologne. He always smelled good.

"No Swan, you _like_ me."

The thud in her chest that she had actually grown used to, became a pounding beat, her heart ricocheting against her ribs so loud that she could almost hear it.

She tried to deny it but her lips wouldn't move.

(She was a terrible liar, after all.)

She studied his hands, large and strong, tiny dark hairs slipping from under the cuff of his shirt, the knuckles grazed and reddened. She liked his hands. They felt good around her when they danced: gentle yet powerful-

She snapped her eyes shut.

But then he placed his finger under her chin and they flickered open.

His expression caught her breath: there was no mocking, only openness and- and something else she wasn't able to place.

"This thing," he pointed between the two of them, "deserves a chance. But I can't wait forever." His words were tinged with melancholy as he pressed his tongue into the corner of his cheek. "Even the most patient man has his limits."

She ceased her pretense of working. His words confused her. What did he want? What was he trying to say?

There was no time to dwell on that, though. A second later he was standing upright, offering her a quick smile and leaving.

It wasn't until the door closed that she finally understood.

/

Once again her brother was working late. The prospect of returning yet again to the place of her confinement was less than appealing. It was too quiet. She would have far too much time to think.

Instead, she head to _The Rabbit Hole_.

It was a Tuesday, so the place was quiet, the few occupied tables were filled with the usual old timers and regulars who kept the place in business during the week. The pool table was taken by some college-age kids and the stage was empty save for the ever present drum kit and mic stand.

Ordering her usual rum and coke was automatic. But the minute it was placed in front of her she regretted it.

It reminded her of him. It was his drink of choice and the one they shared more often than not. She squirmed on the bar stool as drank, her eyes fixing on the spot where they danced, the smells and sounds of the bar, though muted, bringing her back to that moment.

Going through the haze of time and alcohol wasn't easy. As she slumped against the bar, she kicked her toes against the metal pole that ran along its perimeter, begging her mind to clear up those fuzzy memories.

Oh, she could recall the dance with perfect clarity. The feel of his body, the warmth of his breath, they way they swayed together: for just that one song everything was different. He was just a guy, she was just a woman. No history, no complications.

The last of the rum washed over her tongue and she tapped her glass on the bar to request another.

She was back in the moment. Remembering crossing the bar, Graham to her right, Killian in the distance. She had looked at the police officer, remembering all the good things her brother had told her. But then there was Killian: her nemesis, her coworker, her kind of friend. Sat slouched down in his chair, a glass in his hand, he was swirling the liquid around. He seemed lost even amongst the busyness around him.

And then she remembered the feeling: that want and ache that had overcome her. How her feet had continued past where Graham has sat, singlemindedly determined to do something her sober self had denied her. She wanted to touch him, to look into his eyes and be free of all the past that surrounded their relationship with each other.

To just be a woman, who is well on her way to being in love with a man and just hopes he feels even slightly the same.

/

There had never before been a reason to go to Killian's apartment, but of course she knew where it was.

She'd left her second drink almost untouched, paying the bill before she could analyse her decision.

Outside his door, her hand wavered over the doorbell.

What did she want to say?

 _Sorry?_

 _You're right?_

 _I want you-_

 _(I don't know what I want.)_

But then the door opened.

"Emma?" Killian asked, his face twisted in confusion.

"Hi."

He stared at her and looked like he was going to ask a question, before thinking better of it.

Her mind was blank whilst simultaneously she was lost in him. He had changed into a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. The bandage she applied was still on his forehead. His hair was still delightfully dishevelled. Her gut wrenched and a flood of needing him threatened to overwhelm her.

This was a bad idea.

She was about to turn on her heels and leave when he spoke.

"Do you want to come in?"

 _She should go?_

 _She should stay?_

God, she was a _coward_.

Had she not just decided to stop being scared- to live in the moment and be damned with the consequences?

Wasn't that the whole reason she had hauled herself to his place, just shy of midnight?

After a pause, she nodded, not trusting herself to eat. Her hands were clammy. Her stomach ached.

 _She was nervous._

Emma followed him, closing the door behind her. Inside, he didn't seem to know what to do. They stood in the open plan living room and kitchen, the tv playing something softly in the background.

His place was nice and so… him. Muted grey and blue colours dominated the decor. It was impeccably tidy, the only thing she could see out of place was a cushion on the couch where she assumes he had been sitting.

He was facing her, his thumbs in his belt loops.

"Emma-"

"Killian-"

"You first," he insisted. Killian gestured to the couch and the two sat, an expanse of chocolate leather between them. Her knees shook.

The little clock on his wall ticked loudly. She was listening to his breathing. He was waiting.

"Thank you for the hospital thing. And carrying me upstairs. And making sure I was okay on that first night taking the pain meds. I know I was a bit of an ass about it all. I'm just not used to people helping me."

He smiled softly. "My pleasure, Swan."

"And I'm also sorry for being a bit shitty with you recently. We're friends now and I've not been a good one."

He nodded, his head tilting to one side as he watched her tuck her hair behind her ears and take a deep breath.

"But I'm not sorry for dancing with you at David's birthday."

"No?"

With purpose, she shook her head, placing her hand on the leather between them. She looked at the grain of the material, the lines and creases that fanned out, almost like that of a palm, those that a fortune teller would read. She wondered for a moment what fortune it would be given.

Emma Swan was brave. She was fearless. She could face any challenge… except honesty. Steeling herself, she let her eyes meet his again, the dreamy blue, darkened by the evening and lamplight. The shadows cast across his face showed all the angles and curves that made him, sweeping down to the firm line of his neck and the peek of collar bone hinted at where the neck of his shirt had been stretched out a little.

"It wasn't about Graham."

He cocked his head to one side, his palms resting on his thighs.

"So what was it about?"

"You. _Me_."

She rolled back her shoulders.

"Someone said to me a while back that there was something between us but I was too stubborn to admit it."

"And?" he whispered.

Her stomach flipped.

"You were right."

A tense few seconds slipped by, until he covered her hand with his, sliding along the couch until their knees met.

"I guess then it's not so unspoken anymore."

"Yeah, I-"

His kiss caught her off guard. The hand holding hers tightened its grip as its pair cupped her cheek, pulling her lips to his.

And it just felt right. Not strange or awkward. More like a teasing taste, a whisper of what more could be. His lips light and carefree as they dusted over hers. She let herself be kissed, leaning into his touch, her back arching to allow him to show her what words were unable to. She felt the yearning and the wanting and everything began to click into place.

The teasing. The kindness. The looks.

That sparring tension between them that seemed to wind tighter each day and that she had been in denial about for months.

He ran his palm across her cheek, reluctantly releasing her. Emma pressed her forehead against his, happily dizzy. It was like a giant weight had been lifted. She felt lighter and more carefree than ever.

"Wow," she hummed. "That was-"

"Just a taster," he whispered into her ear, sending a pleasurable pulse through her body right to the tips of her toes. "I've wanted to do that since we first met," he admitted.

"You have?"

He nodded. "Oh yes. All that feistiness and that tough shell. I just was desperate to know what was beneath it though I never thought I'd get the chance to see. And then things happened."

"They did."

His hands slid to her waist

"I'm not the best with feelings."

"I've noticed."

"But I like you, _like that_. I mean, you know-" She bit her lip. "I mean, it's more than like."

He looked stunned for a minute, his eyes wide, his lips parted.

This time, she kissed him. With far less restraint than he had exhibited, swinging her leg over his so she could sit in his lap and wrap her hands around his neck, her kisses pulling against his lips and then pressing against his neck as her teeth grazed his skin in their wake.

It was the dance again, back in _The Rabbit Hole_ , but this time was wasn't pretending or lying to herself. Now she was admitting what she wanted. She pressed an almost chaste kiss against his cheek.

"I cancelled the thing with Graham. I thought you should know"

He began to slowly smile.

"And I wanted to ask you out."

His smile became an outright grin and her stomach flipped again. Just how did one smile do that?

"Shouldn't I be the one asking?"

"I thought you were a modern man?" she teased, her fingers playing with the cotton of his t-shirt.

His grin became crooked. In a second, he had flipped them over, pressing her into the couch, his hips anchoring against hers. "Oh, I'm very modern," he replied, the way he looked at her making her feel like her whole body was turning inside out as her mind screamed, asking her why she had resisted this for so long. "I'll gladly go on a date. It's just, there's one thing I need to do first."

"Oh?" she said, raising her brows.

"Yes. It's very important. Some would say essential- and it requires, well, far less clothing that you are currently wearing."

"Well, if it's essential-"

The rest of her words died in a kiss.

/

They managed to keep it secret from their friends for two weeks. Which was three days longer than they managed at work.

Everyone was unsurprised: it turns out the other agents had a pool running on them. Emma was momentarily mortified, until she looked across the office and saw the happy face of her boyfriend and she realised she didn't care.

She'd spent way too long hiding the truth, even from herself.

 _She loved Killian Jones._

The evening her brother found out, he'd given them his blessing (not that they needed it but it was sweet all the same). They'd danced together at _The Rabbit Hole_ for half the night, lost in each other.

He told her he loved her there, as she moved in his arms. She'd said the same, admitting she wasn't even sure for how long she had.

Back in his bed, in rumpled sheets, she told him a dozen more times, because after something has been unspoken for so long, sometimes you need to make up for lost time.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! Any thoughts, reviews, questions or any other feedback is super appreciated!**


	5. Killian

**-A little insight into Killian**

Hands on her waist, his lips at her ear, singing the words that were so much more than lyrics:

'Give me your heart, make it real or just forget about it.'

She was so free and relaxed. Emma Swan, tough, stubborn, glorious and with walls sky high, was grinding against him in full view of the entire bar. The night flashed before him: their friends, the birthday dinner, the rum - oh the rum… The'd worked their way through half a bottle together before she'd slunk off to see her brother. He'd watched her leave, his eyes lingering on the sway of her hips, his mind confused and conflicted.

Killian Jones had been called many things over the years. Stubborn. Sexy. Rapscallion.

But never a fool. Yet that was perhaps the most suitable name for him when it came to Emma Swan.

It had been so long since he'd started to want her (fall for her…) that the time before she had swept into his life seemed a foggy, blurred memory.

Yes, they had sparred at first: being professional rivals would do that to you. But it was an addictive friction. He liked pushing her buttons and watching those green eyes flash and hearing the creative insults she used to describe him. And even when they had found themselves working on the same team, the back and forth hadn't abated. Maybe the edges had smoothed over a bit, but the fire and spark was still there.

When he had discovered her brother worked for the police department, it hadn't been difficult to strike up a tentative friendship considering how often he was there dropping off skips. His motives had not been pure, he would admit it. She'd stubbornly refused to let him further into her life, not matter how many lunches they shared or cups of cocoa he brought her from her favorite diner. Using her family to get closer to her wasn't his finest moment, but as it turned out David was a great bloke and the two had a lot in common. From there, it was a smooth transition from outsider to core member in the circle of friends that the brother and sister had around them.

And it was worth it. Becoming an ingrained part of her life, and her of his, he was pretty sure she felt something for him. There were looks, unspoken words written in lingering glances, and a delicious tension whenever they shared a room.

But tonight was a first. Was he mistaking the way she was pressing herself against him? The way she curved her body and teased his most sensitive parts with her movements and the tips of her fingers?

So he drank her in, enjoying the feel of her, the abandon with which she moved, her arms slung back around his neck, her fingers, tracing circles on the skin of his neck, his body afire with the proximity of the woman who had tormented and bedazzled him in equal measure.

Emma had him twisted around her in a way she could never understand and most likely had not considered. He'd covered his feelings for her with wit and flirtation, always aware that Emma was a skittish woman. An outright declaration of wanting to pursue her would have sent her scuttling for the shadows. The dance, therefore, was a situation he could never have expected. He could pretend that there was more between them than possibilities and chemistry, even if he had no idea how to make that real.

As the song died away, he knew he couldn't hide much longer from the unspoken thing between them before it came bubbling to the surface. Things were heading to a tipping point.

Emma had slipped away from the dance floor, leaving him there, blood racing, hard as a rock, surrounded by oblivious dancers who quickly closed in the space she had left. Then he watched her sidle up to the bar and take a stool next to a man: Detective Graham Humbert of the Boston PD. Co-worker of her brother and all around nice guy.

He needed to do something.

/

Of course, she had denied it.

There was no thing, she'd said. It smarted for a moment, until he reminded himself who he was dealing with.

And, hell, if the idea of her getting with Humbert didn't tear right into him. Yes, he was a decent fellow: good and upstanding and all that. But Emma, she was a flickering flame that needed to be fanned, not quashed by the cool calmness of the police officer. He wanted to be the one to ignite that passion. Oh, she had hinted at how glorious that would be when she plastered her body against his. (He groaned every time he thought about it.)

When he'd gotten close to her in that empty kitchen it was clear she was affected. Her slow breathing, the widening of her eyes. Yes, she felt something, he was even more certain. Getting her to admit it - well, that was another thing.

But he did love a challenge.

/

One thing Killian had learned, pretty early on in their acquaintance, was just how stubborn Emma was. She didn't like to be helped, was fiercely independent and therefore was also highly reticent to admit when she was wrong.

Deciding to tread carefully, he'd tried thoughtful lunches and coffees. He'd tried a smouldering look or two across the office. He'd even thought about talking to David about his obstinate sister. Then he'd thought of a different tact.

If she was so sure he was not what she wanted, how would she react to someone else wanting him?

There was a date. Her name was Clare. They'd met when he was researching a job and she'd given him her card 'just in case'. She was undeniably gorgeous: he hadn't exaggerated in his description of her. She ran her own consulting firm, had been screwed over by a contractor who had fleeced their bank account.

As dates go, it was fine. Nice. Pleasant.

Dinner at an Italian: one of those modern types with lots of white decor. Not those dimly lit, romantic ones with candles and suchlike.

(It wasn't that kind of date.)

He'd been attentive, listening and making the correct responses to her stories, sharing a few tales of his own, having quite the repertoire in that arena working in bail bonds. When they'd parted, he'd given her a kiss to her hand and a non committal reply to her suggestion of another date (another perk of his job, the unpredictable schedule gave many an excuse to get out of social activities).

Back in the office, fine, nice and pleasant were replaced with fantastic, exceptional and scorching. Well, when Emma was there. He saved talking about his date until she was there, raising his voice just high enough to catch her ear, seeing her crane her neck in the most subtle way as he boasted.

It was petty and childish, but he was a little lost when it came to her. She wasn't interested in his usual charms and lines, so this was the route he had chosen. Yet Emma remained stubbornly silent. She'd made no comment on his story; hadn't risen to the challenge he'd laid forth when he laid a lingering stare in her directio

/

It was past midnight when his phone rang.

"Leroy?" he groaned, his eyes blurry from sleep.

"Jones? I need a favor."

Killian sighed. Leroy was a decent enough employer but he liked to take liberties. Like that time he'd tricked Killian into helping him move apartment (not on the clock) or when he'd talked him into picking up his grandmother from the airport which ended with having to spend the afternoon entertaining the octogenarian while Leroy worked - Killian knew he was actually hungover from celebrating the Red Sox winning the play offs.

"Shoot."

"Swan's got herself banged up, she'd down at the ER. Can you check on her?"

The words cut through him. He sprang up in bed, his head spinning a little at the rapid motion. "What? What's happened? Is she hurt?"

"Well, she's getting checked out so I assume something is up. Her brother is working and I need to know that my best - sorry, second best agent is getting taken care of."

Killian was already pulling on a t-shirt. "I'll be there," he replied, a ball of worry churning inside him.

/

She was fine. Relatively.

The anxiety that had risen as he drove to the hospital had melted as soon she had given him a mouthful of snark. He'd missed that.

As she was treated she did a good job of trying to ignore his presence. He wished, quite often, that his charms worked on Emma. Usually, he didn't even have to try. Take the nurse who'd been looking after Emma. He'd merely smiled and asked a few questions and she was all over him like a rash. Maybe that was what had made Emma appeal to him so much. Maybe he was just a glutton for punishment.

Crutches and medication in hand, it was the gentlemanly thing to offer to take her home. It was also the gentlemanly thing to help her up the stairs -and be silently thankful that her building didn't have an elevator- when he pulled her protesting form over his shoulder and firmly gripped her thigh. The brief time it took to climb the staircase had him all worked up. Her warm body so close to him, the feel of her pressed against him. It was almost too much.

Once at her door, he'd followed her inside without invitation.

While she changed he'd organized her painkillers and prepared a small tray so she wouldn't have to leave her bed until David got home. He found her laid on her bed in faded plaid pajamas, her eyes tired and hair ruffled but no less stunning than he ever thought her to be.

Beautiful, stubborn, fiery Swan.

Damn he'd wanted to kiss her. (He'd wanted to kiss her for months-)

When he'd placed the tray on her bedside table, he'd let himself soak her in for a moment. She smelled like shampoo - mint - and the cottony scent of fresh laundry. He'd played it off as going to fluff her pillow, biting his cheek to stop him saying something he would regret.

Of course, she questioned his motives.

He'd pleaded through the way he looked at her, begged her to understand.

"You, nice? Please. You're only nice when you're trying to get in someone's pants."

He'd have been lying if he said that didn't smart. He wasn't sure where that opinion of him had came from and for a second it was hard to hide the flare of hurt that flickered over his face.

But then he smiled, hiding what he felt behind his mask of bravado. It was too easy to fall into that pattern of banter with ther.

"Maybe I am."

Her lips parted. He could see the way she was checking him out. His eyes danced over her form, the deep neckline of the pajamas, the top button that had worked it's way undone.

God, he was wrecked for her.

Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.

"I'm not having sex with you because you gave me a ride home."

Every muscle tightened for a second as he let her insinuation pass over him. He knew she didn't mean it. He knew she was just deflecting. Two can play at that, he thought.

"Maybe I don't want to have sex with you," he said, eyes boring into hers, her expression changing from confused to shocked to something unreadable. His mouth felt dry and his heart was racing. She didn't speak, so he let the next words fall from his lips before he could think better of it.

"Maybe I want to make love to you."

(And he meant it. He was well past like, half in love with her already.)

It was one of those defining moments. He felt on tenterhooks as he waited. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her fingers tightened their grip on the comforter, her head tilted to one side-

Then she laughed. Soft, gentle.

"Good one," she nodded, tapping a pointed finger at him. "You had me there for a minute, Jones."

"Did I?" he sighed.

Not such a defining moment, then.

What had he truly expected? This was Emma, after all.

He'd left, a dilemma on his hands.

/

It was somewhere in between being punched by the skip, and Humbert informing him about his date with Emma, that Killian had made up his mind. He was becoming a fool over this woman.

Almost two weeks had passed since the night he had taken her home from the hospital and in that time they had exchanged a grand total of four, completely work related, text messages. He missed her.

And why was she going on a date with that fool? Why not him?

(He knew the reason why: it wasn't like he had outright asked her. It wasn't like he thought she would say yes-)

Tormented as she tended to his wound, it had't taken long to decide. He'd laid out his cards on the table, making it clear that something with him was time limited and she needed to make a choice.

Walking out of that office had been incredibly hard, made more so by the fact that he was only being half honest.

(He'd have waited forever for her.)

He lay on his couch and tried to think of anything other than her expression when he had left.

/

She was there, in his arms, her lips beneath his, the words he had wanted to hear from her for so long seeming to come so easily in the dimly lit living room.

Kissing her was everything and more. They just fit. His hands melded to her waist, her arms around his neck. He drowned in her.

(And it was a glorious way to go-)

Wrapped up in one another, for the first time true honesty not being shielded by walls and bluster, he found it was surprisingly simple. Maybe words weren't needed after all when two were open with each other, more could be said after all by actions rather than words.


End file.
